


Babel Song

by twobirdsonesong



Category: CrissColfer - Fandom, Glee RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Injury, CrissColfer Big Bang, Happy Ending, It's not scary I promise, Light Angst, M/M, Magic, Violence, as always this should be much longer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twobirdsonesong/pseuds/twobirdsonesong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night is dark and a kingdom is ablaze.  Chris, a young villager from the North, wakes in a forest with a dreadful wound and no memory of what happened to him.  Desperation rises and hope appears distant when a shadowed stranger with his own secrets emerges from the trees.  With his new companion, Chris must journey an unknown path while the lands around him fall into war if he is going to make it home.</p><p>Link to Artwork: TBA!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Numbered My Days

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to crisscolfuck for her A+ beta help and to actyourshoesizegirl to her questions and comments that made me think more about this world. And thank you to Lindsay for organizing another round of fun

The world is a different place when Chris wakes up, lying on his back on the damp earth of the forest, blinking up at the dark canopy of the trees. Ash and copper fill his nose and his lungs ache. Wet loam seeps through his coat and his tunic, and his head feels like it has been split apart and shoved back together. He coughs and every bone hurts.

 

He must have run. He must have run from the burning city, or perhaps he was carried away. His memory is hazy, slipping from his grasp as he tries in vain to recall. He does not know what hour it is now and he cannot see the stars through the trees or the smoke. It is almost full-dark, but the burning kingdom behind him casts an ominous glow, shedding orange light even into these dense woods.

 

He must keep moving; he cannot stay where he is. He escaped the walls of the city, somehow, but he is not yet far enough away to call himself safe. The deep woods are quiet, almost, but far off in the distance he can hear the rumble of war, of fire and death. He is too close to be safe.

 

Chris tries to sit up, but an excruciating, searing pain in his side stops him short. His vision swims, black spots clouding his tearing eyes as he gasps. He tries to breathe through the hurt, but the smoke still trapped in his lungs chokes him. Each ragged cough sends a wave of throbbing pain deep in his side. Chris closes his eyes and struggles not to retch or pass out until his lungs calm and his breath evens.

 

“Gods,” he mutters to himself, because he can think of nothing else to say.

 

Gingerly, he reaches down and touches the edges of his tunic; his hand comes away wet with blood.

 

“Fuck.” He does not remember being wounded. There is no arrow protruding from his side, so it must have been a blade. It surprises him; the things rumored to live in these woods do not usually favor steel. He thinks it must have happened in the city.

 

The wound cannot be immediately life threatening; he did not bleed to death into the damp earth and rotten leaves as he lay unconscious for however long it had been. Still, he needs to clean, stitch, and dress it; an infection would be as fatal as any weapon. And he may yet bleed out, just slower.

 

“I am not going to die here,” Chris says to himself, even though he is not entirely sure of the truth of the statement.

 

“No,” comes a voice out of the darkness. “You are not.”

 

Chris jerks in surprise and fear, panic flooding his veins as he struggles to look around, to see who spoke the words. The helplessness of being prone on his back compounds his alarm.

 

Silently, a dark figure appears to melt out of the shadows between the trees.

 

The shape suggests a man, though a cowl is pulled up over his head, obscuring his face. He wears soft clothes of a fabric Chris cannot place; dark browns and greens that give him cover in the woods. He carries no weapons, only a satchel, though Chris cannot say for sure there are no daggers hidden up his sleeves or tucked in his boots.

 

“I’m unarmed,” Chris stutters. He holds his hands up, showing his empty, bloodied palms, but the movement tugs at the open wound in his side and he gasps. “But I am wounded. I am no threat to you.” Lying on his back, with no weapon at all, Chris knows he would be an easy kill for almost anyone. His heart beats so harshly he is sure it is visible through the tender skin of his throat.

 

The stranger slips closer; his soft boots make no sound on the forest floor, but he moves with grace and wariness.

 

“You came from the city,” he says.

 

“I did,” Chris confirms. “I ran, I escaped. We were – the city was attacked.”

 

The man looks towards the west, gazing off to where the center of the kingdom burns. With his chin lifted, Chris can see the shape of his profile – a slightly crooked nose, strong jaw, full lips. Even in the sparse light of the woods, the man’s skin is richer than Chris’ own.

 

There is something different about the man, something otherworldly. Chris knows the Eastern Forest is old, very old, and this man seems to radiate the ancient strength of the roots and the trees.

 

“The King is dead,” the man says obliquely. “You may do as you please.”

 

Chris swallows. “I don’t understand.” The rush of fear that overtook him at the stranger’s unexpected appearance has faded, replaced now by confusion and curiosity.

 

The man looks back down at Chris and his face is once more completely shadowed by his cowl. “With your permission, I will tend to that wound.”

 

Chris nods quickly, gratefully. If the man had wanted to kill him, he would have done so already, and he if wanted to simply abandon Chris where he lay, he would have done that too.

 

“What is your name?” Chris asks.

 

The man kneels down next to Chris. “You may call me Darren,” he says, and pushes back his cowl. He has curly hair, the color of the night, which covers his ears and sweeps across his forehead. He looks to be not much older than Chris himself and is not at all what Chris was expecting.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“With your permission,” Darren repeats instead of answering the questions. He reaches for the blood-soaked hem of Chris’ tunic and Chris can only nod dumbly as the vulnerability of the situation suddenly overwhelms him.

 

It looks bad. A gash the length of his palm splits him open just below his ribs and weeps dark blood down his side. Cold sweat breaks out on Chris’ forehead and he tips his head back, closing his eyes against a wave of nausea and lightheadedness. He is not sure how he hasn’t succumbed yet.

 

“A blade did this,” Darren comments.

 

“I don’t remember. It was – the city was in chaos. People were running, screaming. Homes burst into flame. I don’t remember what happened. Hurts like the Devil’s dancing on my grave.”

 

Something that sounds almost like a laugh comes from Darren, and when Chris opens his eyes again, there is something like a smile playing on his lips. His eyes are serious, though, focused as he examines Chris’ wound.

 

Chris cannot stop that pained gasp that leaves him when Darren touches the edges of the gash with careful fingers. His hands are strong and veined, powerful and graceful.

 

“You will not die,” Darren tells him. “But this will hurt.”

 

Chris closes his eyes again and says, “I am at your mercy.”

 

He does not watch, but Chris can hear Darren rustling around in his satchel before a splash of water against his side has him groaning and gritting his teeth. Darren pats his skin dry with some sort of cloth, but Chris knows his clothing is already ruined. He’s not sure when or where he’ll be able to replace them. He’s got some coin in a pouch around his neck, but it will not get him far. And he has a long road ahead of him to find his way home.

 

A rich, heady smell fills Chris nose, replacing the smoke and copper with some blend of herbs he cannot name. It is calming, soothing; almost something from a long-forgotten memory, but he screams when Darren smears the mixture into the wound, the agony burrowing into his bones. Passing out would be a relief.

 

Darren gentles him with soft, murmuring words, almost a song, and the searing heat in his side subsides just enough that Chris can breathe once more.

 

“That was not the part that will hurt,” Darren warns him and Chris can feel hot tears leaking down his cheeks.

 

_I am afraid_ , he wants to say, but cannot make his throat work.

 

Above him, Darren’s eyes are kind and his hands are warm where they rest against Chris’ trembling belly.

 

“Take a breath,” Darren murmurs. “It will be over soon and the pain will not be remembered.”

 

Chris nods, inexplicable trust in this stranger filling him. He does not lose consciousness at the first sharp pain of a needle pushing through his raw skin, but he does at the horrible sensation of catgut threading through him. The blackness is welcome.

 

***

 

He dreams of fire – of a child crying and a dog baying at a blood red moon. Forged steel flashes and figures in green overtake the guards.

 

He looks for a way out, for a way home, but roads have turned to black rivers and the walls crumble at his feet. Somewhere in the distance his sister calls his name, but he cannot find her through the smoke and searing ash.

 

His lungs fill and it is almost like drowning.

 

***

 

Chris wakes once again, this time to the gentle murmur of Darren singing some soft song to himself in a language Chris does not understand. He lifts a hand to his side and his fingers brush against the stiff, dry linen that is now wrapped around his waist.

 

“You will ache for a few days,” Darren says, stopping his song when he notices Chris is awake.

 

“You said the pain would not be remembered,” Chris points out and is oddly pleased to see a bare hint of a smile on Darren’s face.

 

“When it is gone, you will forget.”

 

“Always so cryptic.” Cautious of his side, Chris struggles to finally sit up.

  
“Steady now.” Darren slips his arms around Chris’ shoulders to help and Chris can feel the strength in him.

 

“Oh.” Chris’ head swims a moment, but clears. A dull ache pulses in his side, where he knows he was split open, but it too fades. “Are you a healer?” Chris asks, but Darren shakes his head. Chris wishes there were more than just the light of the moon above and the glow of the burning kingdom behind him so that he might see Darren more clearly.

 

“Take some water.” Darren hands him a waterskin, the same one Chris assumes he used to clean his wound.

 

The water inside is clear and cold and Chris gulps it gratefully, happy to finally wash the taste of ash from his mouth and ease his dry, parched throat.

 

“Thank you,” he breathes, handing the waterskin back.

 

“Can you stand?”

 

“I hope so.”

 

Together they get Chris to his feet. He sways, but finds his balance. His wound throbs, but the hurt is a fraction of what it was. Whatever Darren smeared across the gash must have some sort of numbing property, and for that Chris is appreciative.

 

“I owe you my life,” Chris states, deeply sincere, but Darren shakes his head.

 

“There is no life debt here.”

  
Chris wants to argue, because he knows he likely would have died there on the forest floor, or been set upon by someone with meaner intentions than Darren. But he is tired and has not the strength to quarrel. He looks back, looks west towards the Kingdom.

 

“Now what do we do?”

 

“I will see you through the forest,” Darren replies. “I can take you someplace safe.”

 

“I need to get to my family.” Chris has forced thoughts of his parents, his sister, out of his mind until this moment. But their faces come back to him now. He hopes he can return home before news of what has transpired reaches them. He does not want them to worry unnecessarily.

 

Darren asks, “You live in the city?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then first you must journey out of these woods.”

 

“I’ll just go back. Take the King’s Road north, I know the way…”

 

Darren shakes his head swiftly. “You cannot go back. That way is closed.”

 

Chris looks over his shoulder. The tree-line does not seem that far away, despite the ominous glow of the still-burning city. But perhaps it is a longer way than it seems. He is not so familiar with this part of the country.

 

“Who are you?” Chris asks again.

 

Darren replies, “Merely someone who will take you to safety. These woods are full of dark and terrible things, after all. I will see you through.” For a moment, just a moment, Darren’s eyes flash the color of molten gold.

 

“And how will we get to safety? Marauders will surely be everywhere, to say nothing of the – the people who did this, and I am but a farmer. I have no weapon, no training. The Kingdom is fallen.” Chris spreads his hands out helplessly. He hopes to whatever gods or spirits who might be listening that his family is safe and that they are far enough away to not be troubled by this.

 

“Falling, not fallen,” Darren corrects. “If it matters to you so, it may yet be saved from complete ruin.”

 

“By going back?”

 

“By going forward.”

 

Chris does not know what that means. “And it doesn’t matter to you?”

 

Darren shrugs, looks around at the trees, the damp earth, the night sky above. “I am not a part of your Kingdom. My home is elsewhere in this world. It matters to me not.”

 

The finality of it, the calmness of Darren’s voice, is shocking. Chris knows there are those in the world who live outside the realms of kings and men, who eschew the laws and constraints of society to live in their own ways. He knows there are creatures who are not men, not human, but who share the lands with them and wage war with them when the cause arises.

 

“Then why are you helping me?” Chris inquires, looking deep into the shifting colors of Darren’s eyes.

 

Darren mouth twitches like he’s struggling for the right words, or the best words. “The world demands balance,” he says finally.

 

“Balance?”

 

Darren nods. “It is a tenuous thing. Unstable. I…made a choice. One choice out of many that I – I made a choice with you. One right against many wrongs.”

 

“I didn’t ask you to,” Chris points out, though he’s aware he was in no position to ask for anything at all.

 

“You did not,” Darren agrees. “Come. We must get moving. These woods become deeper and darker the quicker you need to pass through them.”

 

***

 

Chris was not even supposed to be in the city that day. He lives with his parents and his sister in a small village a short week’s journey north from the kingdom’s walls. They have a modest home with sheep, a few goats, chickens, cows for milk, and enough crops to make them a bit of money every season. A few cats choose to live around the house and they have a dog too. It’s a small life, a farmer’s life. Chris spends his days doing chores, working in the fields, and reading every book he can. An old man in a horse-drawn wagon comes by every full moon trading his wares; Chris gives him fresh chicken eggs and a bladder of milk in exchange for new books. There are never enough to satisfy him.

 

But they needed supplies that they could not get in their small village; sugar for his mother, a bag of coffee beans for his father who acquired a taste for the stuff, and medicine for his sister’s persistent cough.

 

It was not usually a dangerous journey and Chris knew the way well. A narrow, winding path took him along a gentle river towards the King’s Road, which carried him straight into the city through the Northern Gates. On foot it could take him nearly a week, but he’d borrowed a horse from the blacksmith who had always given his family a fair price on services and wares. He had not wanted to leave his family without their own horse for so long.

 

That blacksmith’s horse was lost now, Chris assumes. When the city had been attacked, he hadn’t been able to get back to the stables before he’d been wounded and fell unconscious. He still does not know how he made it out of the city alive, but he knows that horse was not waiting by his side when he awoke in the forest.

 

He hopes the horse is faring better than he.

 

***

 

“I need a moment,” Chris pants, sinking down onto a large, fallen tree trunk just off the pathway. He is tired, hungry, and his side has begun to throb in time with his racing heart.

 

He’s not sure how far they have walked, but the night has given way to a pink morning sky and his bones are weary. He is not a weak man, his body is strong from years working his family farm, but the wound continues to exact a toll on him. Worse, his heart hurts for what has happened. He still does not know if he will find his way home to his family, his friends. He does not know if this man will suddenly turn on him and take his life. And he does not know why the kingdom was overtaken. Melancholy and hopelessness threatens to pull him under.

 

Darren kneels down next to him. “Let me see,” he says, already pushing Chris’ coat open and reaching for the hem of his tunic. In the brighter light of morning, Chris can see the richer shade of Darren’s skin and thick smudge of his eyelashes. He can also see the rust stain of his own blood on his clothes. It would make him queasy if he weren’t so exhausted.

 

By some miracle Chris has not bled through the bandage, but Darren sits back and digs fresh linens from his satchel anyway.

 

“Take your shirt off.” He says it casually, but Chris blushes all the same.

 

He is not a shy man, not particularly. Growing up, he spent his summers swimming in ponds and lakes with the other boys from the villages, and from villages nearby. And during the planting and harvesting seasons, when sun is bright and hot, beating down on him, he strips down to short pants while he toils in the dust and the dirt. There’s no point in shame or embarrassment when he’s wiping sweat from his brow and under his arms and everyone else is too.

 

But he feels pale under Darren’s warm hands and against the dark greens of the forest. He feels exposed in his vulnerability.

 

Darren is efficient with him, and even though Chris does not want to look, he can’t help it. What he sees surprises him. For as dire as the wound in his side had been, it seems more greatly healed than he expected. A neat row of dark stitches holds his skin together, which is pink and tender, but not as red and inflamed as he expected.

 

“It looks much improved,” Chris comments, but Darren merely grunts.

 

From his satchel Darren removes a small leather pouch that contains a fragrant mix of herbs. Darren takes a pinch, and before Chris can ask what he’s to do with it, Darren places the herbs in his mouth and chews quickly.

 

“Oh…are you going to…” Chris doesn’t finish his question before Darren smears the ground poultice across the stitches with his fingers.

 

He murmurs a few words to himself, a soft song in an unknown language, and a comforting heat seeps deep into Chris’ muscles and bones.

 

“What is that?” Chris asks, fascinated by the warmth and the heady scent of the herbs.

 

“An old family secret,” Darren responds with just a hint of something like humor as he wraps Chris’ side in the fresh linens. His touch is confident, but gentle, and when his fingers brush the bared skin of Chris’ belly, Chris shivers.

 

“Will you let me pay you for your kindness and your supplies?”

 

“I have no use for your coin.”

  
Darren rises to his feet. Chris cannot help but let his eyes flicker across Darren’s form. His leggings are the same brown as tree bark and fitted closely to his legs; the thin fabric skims the heavy muscles of his thighs and calves before tucking into his boots. His green tunic is embroidered in some fine thread that almost shimmers, but doesn’t quite. It traces a pattern along the seams of his clothes, encircling his wrists and disappearing under his collar. He wears too some sort of cloak that moves with him, never seeming to impede his movements or get in the way. Chris wonders where he got it, and if he might buy one for himself somewhere.

 

“How does it feel?” Darren asks.

 

“Good. Better. Thank you.”

 

Darren nods, seemingly satisfied by the progress. “We should keep moving. The way is long.” He scans the trees around him with those keen, peculiar eyes of his.

 

But Chris is weary to his soul. “Might we rest here, just a moment?” He asks. “I fear I cannot go much further so soon.” The ground is surprisingly soft beneath him, a cushion of earth and moss, and the old fallen log a steady weight behind him.

 

Darren takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He seems to be listening for something, or seeking, and the air around them grows warmer for a moment. “Rest,” Darren says finally, relaxing. “I will keep watch.”

 

Grateful, Chris settles down on his back, asleep almost before his head finds comfort on the ground.

 

***

 

Chris is at home.

 

His sister sits at the family table, carving a bit of wood with a knife their father gave her the year before. His mother stands before the hearth, stirring a fragrant stew in a massive cast iron pot. Chris cannot see him, but he knows his father is outside. They’d spent the morning chopping wood for the coming winter. Chris had come inside to help his mother prepare supper.

 

The house is warm and smells of meat and herbs; fresh herbs from the garden and a lamb from the butcher. The scratch of the knife in his sister’s hand shivers up Chris’ spine, but it’s a familiar sound. Comforting in a particular kind of way.

 

In his hands is a book he does not remember picking up, but he is halfway through it. The pages are dry beneath his fingers and crackle when he turns them.

 

The house begins to fill with smoke and the paper turns to ash.

 

***

 

Chris wakes feeling ferociously hungry. He stretches tentatively, always aware of the stitches in his side, but relishing in the pull of his muscles. He feels like he’s been standing still for days, frozen, but he remembers it has only been half a day at most since Darren found him in the forest. As he shifts, Chris realizes that something soft has been placed over him – Darren’s cloak. The material is like none other Chris has felt, almost slippery between his fingers, but warm and comforting.

 

Suddenly, the acrid scent of smoke fills his nose and he is overtaken by a flash of memory, of a thousand voices screaming as fire and ash fill the sky. His heartbeat quickens, thudding with the hammer of a drum in the distance. Chris squeezes his eyes shut against it and takes a slow, shivering breath. When he opens them again, the sky is but hints of blue through the trees and he is okay.

 

“Are you rested?”

 

Chris pushes himself to a seated position with a soft groan in answer to Darren’s inquiry. He tucks the cloak around himself, narrowly resisting the impulse to bury his nose in the fabric. He means to answer further, but what he sees surprises him.

 

Darren has set up a small campfire, and above the licking flames a couple of fat rabbits roast on a spit.

 

“How long was I asleep?” Chris asks and rubs grit from his eyes.

 

“Just a few hours,” Darren assures him. “Come. Eat. It will help.”

 

The rabbit is finely cooked and even rubbed in fragrant herbs. Chris hopes that they are not the same ones Darren has been using on his wounds.

 

There are no plates, no knives, but Chris is so hungry he does not care about eating with his hands. His parents’ table is no grand feast either. Chris murmurs his approval and his thanks.

 

As they eat, Chris steals long glances at his new companion; the urgency and fear that had overwhelmed him before finally giving way to curiosity. He studies Darren, who sits with his legs crossed, elbows on his knees as he devours the meat of a rabbit thigh.

 

He is a pretty man, Chris is not ashamed to think to himself, even if it looks like Darren’s nose was once broken and not quite properly reset. He has the kind of eyes Chris reads about in his books, and the kind of mouth he’s heard the girls in the village gossip about. A few boys, too. Darren is smaller than Chris; he noticed it when they were walking, but his shoulders are broad. His hair is wild, almost unkempt as it curls down his temples and hides his ears. It makes Chris think Darren does not live in the city.

 

But beyond what he can see, Chris can guess very little about Darren. His clothing lets him blend into the forest, but he carries no obvious weapon. He does not seem afraid of the things Chris has heard live in these woods, but he moves with caution. Chris wants to know what he was doing in the Eastern Forest and why he has rejected the kings of men.

 

“Thank you again for this,” Chris offers, in part to break the silence, and also to keep himself from asking the things he really wants to. “I do hope you’ll reconsider letting me pay--”

 

“As I said,” Darren interrupts. “I have no need for your coin. I am not doing this for payment. I am not obligated, so do not feel indebted.”

 

Chris cannot argue with that, as much as he wants to.

 

Darren pulls his waterskin out of his bag and takes a long drink before offering it to Chris. It is nearly full and blissfully cold; there must be a creek nearby.

 

“I don’t suppose you have extra clothes in that bag of yours?” Chris asks. “Mine have seen better days.” His tunic and trousers are stiff with dried blood and mud, and his long overcoat has a hole in it where he was stabbed. He could use a bath, too.

 

Darren smiles and it changes his whole face. “Sadly I do not. But you never know what these woods will provide.” At Chris’ inquisitive look, Darren gestures to the remains of their meal as an answer.

 

“I see.”

 

“Are you ready to keep moving?”

 

“Yes, well,” Chris pauses and shifts uncomfortably, suddenly hyper aware of the needs of his body. “I just, uh, need to…”

 

Darren chuckles and his eyes crinkle in the corners. “I’ll turn my back if you require such privacy.”

 

Chris blushes furiously, and steps deeper in the forest to conceal himself a bit better behind some trees.

 

“Do not lose sight of this clearing,” Darren calls out to him, his voice filled with concern. “Not even for a moment. You may not find it again.”

 

Darren has discarded the picked-clean rabbit bones in a deep hole and obliterated all traces of the small fire when Chris returns. Chris would wonder at his caution, but the Western Kingdom was sacked. There is reason enough for caution.

 

“Thank for you for this as well.” Chris finally hands Darren back his cloak with no small amount of reluctance. It had been quite comfortable.

 

Darren seems to hesitate a moment before taking it back and throwing it around his own shoulders. It settles around him like water. “You are welcome.”

 

***

 

Darren is an odd companion – quiet, but radiating energy. Chris would think him lost in his own head if it weren’t for the sharp focus in his eyes.

 

There is a lightness to him that feels as though it’s being tamped down, like a candle snuffed by silver. It is as if Darren is carrying the dark weight of something unnamed and unseen, but ever present with him.

 

“Where are you from?” Chris asks. He is inquisitive by nature, to a fault sometimes, and the stillness of the forest they are traveling and the solemn countenance of his companion is an itch he must scratch.

 

“Not far,” Darren responds.

 

“What business brought you to the city?”

 

“My own.”

 

Chris frowns. He himself can be a private man, as much as he can be living in a modest home such as his, with his family always close at hand. But Darren’s reticence to speak, the unnatural stillness of him, is something else.

 

“Why do you carry no weapons? In times such as these?”

 

Darren looks at him from beneath dark lashes. “Are you so certain I do not?”

 

Chris narrows his eyes at Darren’s cloak, unable to discern the shape of any hidden weaponry, no sword in scabbard, no knives strapped to his thigh, no quivers across his back. But Chris once saw a parlor magician produce a silver coin from his sister’s nose at a fair, and a chicken from a sack when there was none before. He knows things can be well-hidden, concealed from sight, when the need is there.

 

“Do you know who attacked the kingdom?”

 

Darren’s shoulders twitch and so does his mouth. “I do.”

 

Chris waits for more, more information, more details, more answers to be revealed, but Darren’s lips press tightly together and his eyes fix on the path ahead.

 

“I cannot remember what happened,” Chris offers, after a few minutes of walking with the only sound between them the rustling of the trees all around. “In the city. The attack. I do not know how I came to be in the forest when I had been behind the city walls. I awoke on the ground and that’s all I can remember. I was getting supplies for my family, and then I was there and the city was on fire.”

 

“Are you so sure you want to remember?” Darren finally counters. “What happened there, it was not…kind.”

 

“I don’t like not knowing. Someone must have helped me. I was injured, though I don’t remember how, or when. I had no weapons. I’m a farmer. I could not have fought myself to safety. Someone aided me and then left me. And I cannot remember him.”

 

Darren nods thoughtfully. “Perhaps it will come back to you. When the time is right.”

 

Unsatisfied, Chris lets it go nonetheless. Chris is sure Darren is hiding something, but all men have their secrets. Darren is not his enemy – if he meant to hurt Chris he’d have done so already, not ensure his survival. If he has secrets to keep, lies to maintain for his own safety, then Chris will not deny him those things. The heart is as deep and as dangerous as these woods.

 

***

 

The pathway twists and turns over and again, winding so sharply Chris is sure they spend an hour walking back from whence they came before turning north once more. He assumes they’re heading north, that is. His knowledge of these woods is nonexistent and he has never been very good at orienting with the sun. He does not fool himself that he would not have become hopelessly lost in these deep and dark woods without Darren’s guidance.

 

“Why must we go through the forest?” Chris asks. “I know you said the King’s Road was too dangerous at this time, but surely there are other ways to head north?”

 

“This is the way we must go,” Darren responds. His cryptic nature infuriates Chris, who bites his tongue against the curse he wants to spit.

 

“Well, how long do you think it will take?”

 

“That depends on when the forest lets us leave.”

 

Chris sulks and kicks a rock off the path.

 

He sulks the next silent hour as they continue along an empty road he is starting to think leads absolutely nowhere. Perhaps he died and this is his long journey through Purgatory. Perhaps he died and this is his Hell, a crossing with no end with a man who makes no sense. Perhaps he is still lying at the edge of the forest, hallucinating as he bleeds out his life into the loam while no one comes to his rescue. Chris would consider any of these true possibilities if it were not for the dull ache in his side reminding him of his continued existence. And surely in death he would be free of the awful itching of dried mud and blood caked on his skin and clothes.

 

Chris is beginning to consider asking Darren if they can’t just turn around and try something else when he hears the unmistakable sound of running water. Delight brightens his mood.

  
“Do you hear that?” Chris chirps, glancing at Darren for just a moment before stepping off the path and heading towards what must be a creek.

 

“Chris, wait!”

 

Chris does not wait. It cannot be that far into the woods, and the day is bright besides. But he only makes it several quick strides before a hand clamps around his arm, halting and turning him with surprising force.

 

Fury marks Darren’s face, twisting his mouth as his eyes flash a deep, molten gold.

 

“Never leave the path without me,” Darren snarls and Chris sucks in a hard breath at the sharp intensity of it.

 

“I just wanted--”

 

“I do not care what you want,” Darren snaps. “This forest is not to be trifled with. I did not save your life for you to be reckless and foolish with it. There is more for you than getting lost among the trees, drowned by the cold and slippery things you cannot see in the water.”

 

“But--”

 

“I told you there were dangerous things in these woods. I did not say that lightly. I did not say it for you to ignore me.”

 

“We haven’t seen anyone else this whole time,” Chris counters, hyper-aware of the continued heat of Darren’s hand around his bicep.

 

“That does not mean they have not seen us.”

 

Chris sees it then, what he had missed before – the fear in Darren’s countenance that was masked by his anger. The threat must be real if someone like Darren is so concerned.

 

“I am sorry,” Chris offers, small and contrite in the face of all that he does not know. “I did not think.”

 

“You did not.” Darren takes a harsh breath, but some of the tension in his shoulders eases. He lets go of Chris’ arm and flexes his hand. “The world is dangerous.”

 

“I know that.”

 

“Do you? The choices we make, they have consequences. Seen and unseen. Each decision leads into a new one, breaks off towards a new path, a new choice. Again and again.” Darren punctuates his words with a sharp slash of his hands. “Do not make your choices lightly.”

 

Chris feels chastened to his bones. “I am sorry,” he repeats and means it.

 

Darren rolls his shoulders slightly, discharging the tension in them. “What was so important?”

 

“There’s water, just over there.” Chris gestures deeper between the trees where he can still hear the creek.

 

“I have water if you are thirsty.”

 

Chris blushes. “No, I – I simply wanted to bathe. I’m – there’s blood, everywhere. And mud.”

 

Darren ruffles the hair at the back of his head, jaw clenching and unclenching as he searches for what to say next. “Please do not step off the path without me again.”

 

All Chris can think to say is: “I am sorry.”

 

“Is it that important? It is…preferred that we keep moving.”

 

“I would feel better for it.”

 

“I have no dry clothes for you.”

 

Chris shrugs. “I’ll take them off. I won’t be but a few minutes.”

 

Darren swallows heavily, but nods. “Follow me. Walk where I walk. Try not to touch anything that looks particularly appealing. There are things here that want you to touch what you should not. The difference between good and bad for you is permeable.”

 

Chastened and ever more confused, but eager for the chance to scrub the blood from under his fingernails, Chris follows Darren’s careful steps. The ground grows a little softer as they near the bank and Chris is cautious not to slip.

 

The creek that cuts through the forest floor is small, but clear, slow moving and inviting. It’s not that there are birds chirping or flowers blooming, there are none, but the sunlight that filters through the trees is suddenly warmer than it was before, almost hazy and alluring. It is one of the loveliest places Chris has ever seen.

 

“Try not to submerge your wound,” Darren cautions, before stepping back a few paces and turning around to give Chris some privacy.

 

Chris should not get his clothing wet, filthy as it is, for a chill can creep up on someone unawares. And so, he leaves his clothes in a pile on a rock and cautiously steps into the stream. The water is warmer than he anticipated, thinking of the icy water Darren carries.

 

Chris wades in slowly, careful of the smooth pebbles under his feet and wary of any sudden drop he might come across. When the water comes to his thighs he stops. Though the current appears sluggish, Chris knows how dangerous it can be to get in too deep.

 

He has no soap and no cloth, but makes do with his hands. Even that is a blessed relief. He sluices palmfuls of clear water across his arms, his chest, his face, scrubbing away ash and dirt and blood. Bending as low as he can given his wound, Chris rinses out his hair and is amused to see a few bits of leaves wash away.

 

It is peaceful here, with the golden light filtering down, the scent of wet earth and moss in the air, and the patter of the stream journeying on to its inevitable end. Chris closes his eyes and tilts his head back, breathing in deeply and unselfconscious of his nakedness. For a moment, just a moment, he can pretend he is back home and that everything is fine. He can pretend his mother is in the back garden gathering herbs for supper while his sister sits by the fire with her latest book. He can pretend his father is in the fields and that he himself is writing on paper they can barely afford.

 

In that moment it is hard to imagine that dark and dangerous things might be lurking nearby, or that a kingdom has fallen.

 

Though he should leave it alone, Chris can’t help but pull his attention to his side.

 

He has not bled through the bandage, but careful though he was, the cloth has gotten damp as he washed. He’s going to have to change it so he might as well take a look.

 

He cautiously unwinds the bandages and pulls them away. Somehow, the deep gash in his side appears almost healed, which is…impossible. The skin is nearly knit around the neat ladder of stitches, and colored a smooth pink instead of the angry red it was before. Chris touches the edge with curious fingers and feels only a slight twinge in place of the gut wrenching agony from earlier. It makes no sense. He has known men to be off their feet for a week with similar wounds; this is impossible. And yet it is there in front of his face, the fact of his healing body.

 

Looking up, Chris can see Darren through the trees, his back turned politely, but standing watch nonetheless.

 

There is something peculiar about Darren, this Chris cannot deny, but he cannot say for certain what it is. Chris knows there are wild, fantastic things in this world, things he can scarcely imagine. He is from the north, far away from the dragons in the Middle Mountains and the sleek beasts in the Great Seas. But he has heard the stories of them, from the old man in the wagon whose eyes hold more wisdom than the Kingdom’s library, and from travelers who pass through his little village bringing with them tales of wonder. And he has seen drawings of the strange creatures that roam the world alongside men, faded paintings in his books.

 

There are stories, too, of what lives beyond the walls and laws of men, of what lives here in the depths of the Eastern Forest. Men who are not men, but beings who possess gifts few can dream of. Creatures who live in the trees and kill any who wander too close, or who hunt in their lands, or try to take what is theirs by the rights of time.

 

_The Wildlings_ , Chris thinks with a shiver.

 

It is said they can produce fire in the palms of their hands and grow an oak where not even the meanest weed would survive. They are rumored to speak with animals and some can even shift into one. The parlor magician who pulled a coin from his sister’s nose is merely a trickster, a court jester whose livelihood it is to entertain. There is magic in the blood of the Wildlings. True magic. Powerful, mysterious, and surely frightening ability.

 

There have been wars in the past, between men and the Wildlings, ancestors of the Dryads if Chris’ books are to be believed. Terrible battles over territory, over land, and the very soul of the forests. Wars brought about by the fear of the Wildlings’ might.

 

And, Chris recalls, it is said they can heal a grievous wound with naught but a touch.

 

Chris looks again at Darren’s back, the shape of him mostly obscured by his cloak. His shoulders are set, his back straight. Chris knows there is so much more in this world than he has yet seen.

 

Chris shakes himself as dry as possible and, with a grimace, slips back into his grimy underthings, pants, and shoes. He leaves his tunic and coat off.

 

Darren turns when he hears Chris approach. Chris barely has time to register the pink flush in Darren’s cheeks and the way his eyes linger on his chest before he sees Darren notice the exposed wound and the bandages still in Chris’ hand.

 

A new expression flickers across Darren’s face – alarm and, Chris notes with concern, fear. The desire to figure Darren out grows ever stronger.

 

Darren clears his throat. “I – I told you not to submerge your wound.”

 

“I did not, but the bandages got wet regardless.”

 

Darren’s jaw works, muscles flickering, but he nods. “Very well.”

 

Chris holds still as Darren kneels before him and reapplies the fragrant poultice of herbs and wraps a clean bandage around his middle. But truth be told, Chris is quite certain his wound no longer needs the attention.

  
“It is much improved, is it not?” Chris prompts, looking down at Darren’s hands against his pale skin, and the dark, glossy curls on his head.

 

“It is,” Darren consents after a moment’s pause. “You are lucky.”

 

“Perhaps you are just a skilled healer.”

 

Darren’s hands still and he tilts his head back, gazing up Chris with luminous eyes. The color is remarkable, inhuman, Chris might say.

 

“Chris--” Darren begins.

 

As quick as he can, Chris takes a hold of Darren’s wrist and shoves the sleeve of his tunic up.

 

With a gasp, Darren shoves him back and tears his arm away in a swift, violent motion, but it is too late. Chris has seen the markings.

 

Black and green ink flows down Darren’s skin in vivid color. The intricate, delicate markings like vines or branches, following the natural curves of Darren’s bones and muscles, ending just at the pulse point of his wrist.

 

Chris cannot stop staring, even as Darren staggers to his feet, turning away and shoving his sleeve back down, hiding his skin once more. He breathes shallowly, bright spots of red in his cheeks, and his eyes are wild, pained.

 

“You have – you have tattoos,” Chris stammers. His heart suddenly races, hammering hard in his chest.

 

“Does that offend you?” Darren snipes in a new voice and clamps his hand around his own wrist, as though he could conceal what has already been revealed.

 

“No, I – it’s just…”

 

“Speak your mind.”

 

“Well it’s just, well it’s – the only people who have tattoos are…” The realization is a thunderclap Chris should have heard a mile away.

 

Darren turns towards him and his eyes are a fierce golden once again. “Say the word if you must.”

 

“ _Wildling_.” It tastes like shame and guilt and a thousand things Chris does not understand. He feels keenly his own particular existence and his ignorance of others.

 

“That is what you call us.” Darren tucks his arms around his chest and suddenly seems so small.

 

“I am sorry,” Chris offers. “I did not mean to…” But he trails off, unsure of what he did or did not mean to do. He has already caused offense, of that he’s sure. All he’d wanted was to know the truth. He had not thought of the consequences, once again.

 

“I am not going to hurt you,” Darren says, quite unexpectedly.

 

“What? _No_ , I do not think that.” Chris takes a step towards Darren and is suddenly utterly aware of his still bare upper body. “I – I wanted to know, but I should not have done that. I am sorry.”

 

Darren is quiet for a long moment, still, as he stares out into the trees. Chris cannot fathom what he is thinking. He wishes he could find the right words to apologize in a way that mattered.

 

“We are not all what you think of us.”

 

“I don’t think anything of you,” Chris rushes to say and then flushes at the realization of what he’s said. “That is – I think of you as Darren. Nothing else.”

 

Darren nods and takes a slow breath. “We should keep moving,” he says finally. “Night is coming, dark and wild, and we should be further along.”

 

Chris nods, and finally puts on the tunic and coat he’d left off before.


	2. Our Body Thin

It is different now in a way Chris cannot fully explain.

 

They continue to walk and Darren continues to be a quiet enigma. He still seems to carry a dark weight; one Chris thought might have lifted with his secret revealed. But it does not seem to be so. Perhaps Darren is hiding more.

 

Darren offers him the waterskin from time to time, and the water within remains icy cold. Chris now imagines why and how this is possible, but he does not ask for confirmation. He has already taken more from Darren than he should have.

 

“Why have we seen no one else on this path?” He asks instead.

 

“Most men avoid the forest,” Darren responds. “And the path we are on is rarely the path another walks.”

 

Chris frowns. “A path is a path. It goes where it goes.”

 

“Are you so sure?”

 

“How could it be any other way?”

 

Darren asks in return, “When you walk from your home to another’s, do you experience the same moments every time? Do you pass the same travelers? Do you place your feet in the same steps?”

 

“Are you saying that - that no two ways through the woods are the same?”

 

Darren glances at him and there is a smile on his lips, albeit a small one. “You begin to understand.”

 

Chris does not think that is true at all and says, “But that…that makes no sense. A road is a road. It was cut through the trees and the soil and it lies where it lies. It does not move. It cannot.”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

Chris splutters, “Well I…”

 

“And do you know, do you _truly_ know, who laid this path?” Darren asks with a smirk that should be infuriating if Chris’ head weren’t spinning.

 

Chris looks down at the road he has been traveling for days now, with little consideration to where it came from, or whom. It looks, at once, terribly old and freshly cut. Chris stares down the path until is disappears around a curve and becomes shrouded by trees and shadows and can be seen no further. He shivers.

 

“I suppose I don’t.”

 

Darren nods. “And so we follow it to its end.”

 

“What if I were to turn around?”

 

“You cannot.”

 

Chris frowns, “That’s absurd. Of course I can.”

 

“You cannot go back,” Darren stresses. “The past is past. It is done and remains unchangeable. You can only move forward. A man travels through time.”

 

“I think you’re full of shit,” Chris snipes, but Darren just laughs throatily.

 

“Perhaps,” he agrees, quite happily. Chris is glad that at least the tension between them seems to have broken.

 

“What if we cut our own path?”

 

Darren rubs the edge of his jaw with his fingers before saying, “Pick up that branch over there, just on the side.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Must you question everything?” There is a hint of a smile playing around Darren’s lips.

 

Chris grits his teeth a little, but does as he is told. The bark of the broken branch is cool and damp, decaying beneath his palm. “Okay, now what?”

 

“Now set it over there.” Darren points just a few feet from where Chris is standing, on the opposite side of the path.

 

“Set it over there?”

 

Darren nods. Another question rises up in Chris’ throat, but he swallows it down and does what he is told.

 

“Okay?”

 

“Do you see what you have done?”

 

Chris looks from the branch, to Darren, and back to the branch. “Played the least vigorous game of fetch with myself?”

 

Instead of rolling his eyes, Darren says, “Do you see how you have changed everything?”

 

Chris blinks. “I – no?” He really doesn’t. He has moved a branch but a few feet from where it had lain previously; he has not altered the fabric of the world. He does not see how it can be more.

 

Darren shrugs. “You will one day.”

 

Chris narrows his eyes, but does not argue. “You are infuriating,” he says instead and Darren just laughs.

 

***

 

As they walk on, Chris tries to see further and further down the path, to see if he can’t make out where it leads them. However hard he looks, he can only see so far. The rest of the way is obscured.

 

Suddenly, Darren comes to a halt.

 

“Wait,” he hisses, his arm shooting out and thumping Chris solidly across his chest, stopping him in his tracks.

 

“What?”

 

“Shh.”

 

Chris looks around frantically, scanning the trees for anything, but he sees nothing out of place. Dread fills his belly as he anticipates the arrival of something dark and dangerous. Knowing now what Darren is – what he surely must be capable of, what he must be able to sense – Chris is all the more willing to heed his warnings.

 

Then, from between the trees, a great white stag emerges. Chris’ breath catches as his heart jolts in surprise.

 

The animal is beautiful and fearsome, standing taller than them both with a rack of antlers stretching wider than Chris can reach. He has never seen such a creature in all his life.

 

“He is near,” Darren murmurs, unfazed by the stag.

 

Chris does not have time to ask what that means before he hears the recognizable sound of wooden wagon wheels grinding along a rough path. It is a jarring and bewildering intrusion after so many hours with just the sounds of their breath and his own footsteps against the dirt.

 

The covered wagon is painted a garish red with green and gold flourishes to draw the eye, though the paint has faded and flaked over the years to expose the golden brown oak beneath. Perhaps once upon a time there was lettering emblazoned across the side, proclaiming a name or the goods within available to be bought or traded.

 

A wizened old man is perched on the seat, wearing a long grey cloak and a toothy smile beneath his matching grey beard. His eyes are an obvious blue and his nose is very crooked. The hands that hold the reins are purple-veined and strong.

 

Chris has seen this wagon, and this man, before.

 

“Hail, Old Man!” Darren calls out, his voice ringing bright with unexpected familiarity.

 

“Hail, Young Master,” the man responds, nodding his head towards them both as he brings the wagon to a halt just steps from them.

 

The horse in the harness snorts and shakes her head as well. She stands 16 hands high at least, with a light bay coat and one white sock. Chris knows this horse too, and the surprise of it is nearly as great as the stag.

 

“You found her,” Chris wonders, and takes a few steps towards the horse, holding his hands out to see if she remembers him. She snuffles at his palm before snorting again, seemingly dissatisfied to find no treat there for her.

 

“I dare say she found me.”

 

Chris glances back at Darren, who watches him curiously. “I borrowed her from the blacksmith in my village,” Chris explains. “To journey to the kingdom quicker than I could on foot. But I lost her, during the attack; I was sure she was gone forever.”

 

“Not gone,” the old man says. “Just a little lost. Do you desire her back?”

 

Chris glances at Darren, who merely shrugs, though the nonchalance does not reach his eyes. “I-” Chris does not know why he hesitates as he does. Surely he should be grateful for her.

 

“Would it soothe your worried soul were I to say this fair horse will find her way home soon enough?” The old man continues.

 

Chris swallows. Home – the hoped for end of his journey. And a horse would surely quicken his pace, but it would also mean leaving Darren behind sooner. It has not truly occurred to Chris until that moment that finding their way through the forest and arriving back at his village would signal the end of his journey with his enigmatic companion.

 

“Well,” Chris clears his tight throat, “I certainly could not in good faith leave you bereft of the means to pull your wagon.”

 

The old man laughs and it sounds like ancient, rusted bells. “My dear boy, my old and faithful companion over there, though he may be enjoying this brief respite, will surely grow bored without exercising his usefulness to its fullest extent. He likes to feel important, you see.”

 

The white stag stands just off the pathway, scratching his antlers against an oak tree, leaving great furrows in the bark. Surely Chris would have remembered if the old man had ever passed through his village in the company of such a beast. Chris can only recall the man with a horse, but he is not going to question him on it. He’s learning that perhaps there are some things he must accept before he fully understands them.

 

“I know you, do I not?” Chris does ask. “Perhaps you do not remember as we are a small place, but you come by my village in the north, from time to time. You trade me books for--”

 

“—the best eggs north of the Great River. Yes. I know you, dear boy. And I have new books for you as well.”

 

“What is your name?”

 

The old man’s thick eyebrows rise comically. “My name? Well, child, I have many names. Most recently I’ve been called--”

 

“We call him Granger,” Darren interrupts, placing a hand on Chris’ arm for a brief moment. Chris does not miss the complicated look exchanged between Darren and the old man still sitting up in the wagon.

 

“That you do, young master. That you do. Well. Since we are together here in this fine forest on this fine day, surely there are trades to be made, deals to be struck. You young man look like you are in want of some new clothing. I happen to have a few things in the back.”

 

Chris looks down at himself, at his ruined clothes stained with blood and mud, at the gaping hole in his tunic where some blade pierced him. He still wishes he could remember.

 

“I am, sir,” Chris responds. “I have but a few coins and--”

 

“How about a song?” Granger interrupts.

 

“A song?”

 

But the old man is no longer looking at him. Instead, his sharp eyes are focused on Darren; his expression positively mirthful.

 

“What say you, young master of the woods? Entertain an old man and clothe your companion in return?”

 

Darren looks fondly put upon as he sighs deeply. “One day you will ask me for something else.”

 

“But not today. Come. Let us make a moment of it. I am old and my bones are as weary as my stomach is empty.”

 

Granger hops down from his seat with more vigor and grace than Chris expected a man of his age capable of. He unhitches the horse, allowing her to wander off towards where the white stag is happily eating through the thick grass just off the path. Chris assumes they are more than capable of taking care of themselves.

 

A few feet off, Granger has wandered away and now holds a few branches in his weathered hands.

 

“There must be…ah yes…” Granger mutters to himself as he gathers bits of dead and dry wood from the area, moving to crouch low to the ground.

 

“He takes some…getting used to,” Darren murmurs in Chris’ ear, so close his breath is warm on Chris’ cheek. Chris had not heard him approach.

 

“How long have you known him?”

 

“Too long.”

 

Darren stands very close; the edges of his cloak brush against Chris’ legs. Heat radiates off him and it is all Chris can do to not lean further into him. But he wants to. It surprises him how much, the desire to rest his body against Darren’s, to draw in that comfort. He wants to push Darren’s sleeves up again to see the tattoos that mark his skin, to see how far up those inked vines and branches go. Surely they must be elsewhere on his body. He has heard the people of the forests – the Wildlings – ink the symbols of power and protection onto their entire bodies. Chris wants to know where else Darren’s are, what they mean, how they feel.

 

“Would you, young master?” Granger sits back on his heels. He’s built a surprisingly fine fire pit.

 

Darren glances at Chris with an inscrutable expression; touches of worry around his mouth, hesitation flattening his dark eyebrows. This close his eyes are chaotic green, like dappled leaves in a sun-drenched forest. But, he steps away from Chris to the neat pile of wood and rests his hand on a small piece of kindling.

 

The hair on Chris’ arms rise as Darren murmurs something in a language he cannot understand and his breath catches in his chest. It is the same choral language from when Darren first tended to his wound; the cut in Chris’ side throbs sympathetically.

 

Suddenly, smoke rises from the wood just as flames snap to life, bright and cheery.

 

“Wonderful!” Granger exclaims, his eyes shining with glee. “I never grow tired of that.”

 

Darren just rolls his eyes, but Chris too is filled with awe at the small display. He has no idea what Darren is truly capable of, but he suspects it is quite wonderful, and fearsome. The power seems to shiver through the air a moment longer before dissipating.

 

“Dear boy, what is your name?” Granger asks, rising to his feet.

 

“Chris, sir,” he responds.

 

“Chris, in my wagon you’ll find fresh clothing that I suspect will fit you just fine. Don’t be shy – our young master here will trade us a song for them before the night is through. And while you’re back there, grab some blankets for us to sit on, would you?”

 

Chris nods, relieved to be given something to do other than stand by awkwardly while others act.

 

As he heads around to the back of the wagon, he hears Granger giving an order to Darren as well: “And you, go on and catch us something to sup on. A deer, if you can find one. Prefer them to rabbit these days.”

  
Chris can’t quite make out Darren’s response, but it sounds fondly annoyed.

 

Granger’s wagon is packed full of bits, bobs, and the oddities of the world. Chris gapes a little, his eyes roaming wildly, trying to take it all in at once. A wolf carved of the blackest obsidian sits tucked next to a rolled carpet. A vial of pearlescent liquid hangs suspended in an odd copper contraption. A golden sundial stands atop a large mahogany box. Chris does not let himself linger, knowing that he could lose hours just looking at everything inside. And it is not his place to snoop. He’s already made the mistake of callously prying when he shouldn’t.

 

As promised, there is a heavy chest of clothes against the side of the wagon. Chris digs through until he finds a new tunic, coat, and pants that fit him well enough. He changes quickly and sighs in relief to feel clean cloth against his skin and not the filthy remains of his old clothing.

 

It takes a moment, but Chris also finds a stack of bedrolls, soft and new looking. Chris does not question why Granger has all of these things with him. He has learned quickly that the world contains multitudes and mysteries.

 

“Fascinating man, is he not?” Granger comments when Chris comes back around to the small camp that’s forming nicely.

 

“He is,” Chris agrees absently, mind ranging all over.

 

“Though I suppose he’s not truly a man,” Granger muses. “Strictly speaking.”

 

Chris frowns, shaking out the bedrolls and arranging them around the fire. He has thought about it, and not, in equal measures. What Darren is and what he is not. And what that means for them both.

 

“His kind are very old,” Granger continues as he digs through his cloak and clothes, pulling glass vials out of various pockets. “Very old and very proud. They have not taken kindly to the rise of men these last thousand years.”

 

“I did not realize that there was…” Chris trails off.

 

“A war?” Granger supplies.

 

“Well, yes.” Chris’ village – and his life – has never felt so small, so remote, and so insignificant.

 

“Not yet, but there will be. It’s in the rain and the cold coming winds. It has happened before and will again, as all things do.”

 

Chris closes his eyes. Fire flashes across his memory, the rattling clang of steel and the heat of raining ash.

 

“You should not be afraid,” Granger says, his voice suddenly containing all that there is in the world. “Time gives us everything we have. And then she comes back and begins to take it at all away. It is her way. Do not fear it.”

 

Chris swallows. “You’re saying we all must die?” The wound in his side aches suddenly, but not as much as his heart at the thought of his parents and his sister.

 

“Dear boy, I am saying everyone in this world and the next and the one beyond that will die. Time is the thing no one can stop. It just…moves a little slower for some of us. But the sand runs out all the same. And I am saying do not be afraid of it. There are many years for you between this moment and that empty glass. Don’t waste those grains on fear; spend them instead on laughter, on learning, on love.” Granger jerks his chin towards the close-standing trees Darren disappeared through. Chris flushes all the way down to his toes.

 

“You know, you never spoke like this when you came through my village trading books for eggs.”

 

Granger’s blue eyes twinkle merrily from beneath his bushy brows. “You were not asking an old man for wisdom then.”

 

Chris is spared coming up with a response by Darren’s reappearance. He comes carrying three fat rabbits in one hand and a fondly warning expression on his face.

 

“You’ll eat the rabbits and you’ll be glad for them,” he tells Granger before the old man can voice a complaint. Darren offers Chris a smile and the fleeting press of a hand on his shoulder. He does not ask what they talked about in his absence.

 

Chris puts his hands on his hips. “Well, how can I help?”

 

***

 

When Chris wakes in the morning the old man is gone, and everything else has gone too. The horse. The stag. The wagon. Everything. Chris would think it some fever dream brought on by a missed infection if it were not for the new clothes he is still wearing and the soft bedroll under his body.

 

To Chris’ surprise, Darren is still asleep, stretched out on his back with his hands resting on his belly. Years are removed from his face, the lines in the corners of his eyes smoothed and his lips just barely parted. The morning light is soft and forgiving, setting Darren’s skin alight in rosy golds. He is a lovely thing to behold, Chris cannot deny that even to himself. He wishes the circumstances were different.

 

Normally Darren’s hair covers his ears, hiding his true nature, but in sleep the curls have become mussed. Suddenly, Chris can see the elongated shape of Darren’s ear when he could not before. Carefully, and holding his breath, Chris reaches out to brush the hair completely out of the way. The top of Darren’s ear tapers pleasingly upwards instead of curving as his own does. It is such a small thing, but so utterly different that Chris can only stare in wonder.

 

“I am not human.”

 

Chris jerks back with a surprised gasp.

 

Darren is awake and looking up at him with soft, understanding eyes.

 

Chris stutters, “I did not mean to--”

 

“It’s okay,” Darren interrupts. “You already know. Now you have seen.”

 

“I have not seen everything,” Chris counters before he can stop himself.

 

Darren inhales, “Then look.”

 

Heat flares in Chris’ belly as he sits upright. Darren remains on his back, body lax and eyes soft. Chris can barely breathe as he reaches down. Darren’s hands still rest on his belly and he does not move as Chris tentatively pushes the sleeve of his tunic up.

 

The tattoos are still there, delicate lines of green and black following the tracery of his veins and the muscles in his forearms. This close, Chris can see that they are branches, not vines. The artistry is exquisite; the differentiation of bark and even little unflowered buds. He can see also fine runes woven deep into the patterns.

 

“It’s beautiful,” Chris breathes and he swears Darren shivers beneath him.

 

“That is not usually what your kind says.”

 

“Because they do not know. They do not know what your people are actually like.”

 

Darren’s eyes darken. “They fear us.”

 

“Because they do not know you,” Chris stresses. “The things you must be able to do. It is…it is hard to imagine. It must be frightening to some. To many. The power you have that we do not.”

 

“Chris. I am but one. We are not all alike. Among us -- there are some to be feared.”

 

“Well, you are the one I do know and I am not afraid of you.” The burst of conviction takes Chris as much by surprise as it does Darren, who swallows heavily. The tattoos shift as Darren flexes his hand and Chris is mesmerized.

 

“May I?” Chris does not mean to ask, but the question passes his lips all the same, his curiosity taking hold.

 

“Yes.”

 

Chris’ heart beats heavy in his throat. Slowly, giving Darren time to pull away despite his assent, Chris settles the tips of his fingers against the tattoo.

 

“Oh, it’s warm.” The skin marked by ink feels the same as the skin that is not, but warmer – like a stone that has been sat in the sun for hours.

 

“How?”

 

Darren shrugs. “Power.”

 

“How…how far does it go?”

 

Chris looks up as he asks and Darren’s eyes have gone gold, the color of the liquor reserved for the winter solstice and for great celebrations.

 

Darren tips his chin up, exposing the line of his throat and the collar of his tunic. The laces are done up very tightly, but they surrender to Chris’ fingers.

 

The full branches of an oak tree span Darren’s chest; intricate leaves curling just under the curve of his collarbone, and, Chris assumes, lower. When Chris bends closer, he can see the leaves and branches are not merely a pretty design, but formed by complex runes. His hand finds the space between the edges of Darren’s tunic, settling against his skin. Chris can feel the rapid beat of Darren’s heart beneath his bones and his own answers in kind.

 

He asks, “What do the runes say?”

 

“It is not a language that translates.” Darren’s voice has gone low and rough.

 

“How – what does it do?”

 

Darren’s eyes are on Chris’ hand where it presses to his chest. “It acts as a conduit.”

 

“Could you…without it?”

 

“Yes. Not as well, but yes. The runes are for protection as well, and healing.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Darren sits up suddenly and Chris’ hand falls away. Immediately, Chris misses the softness of his skin and the strange heat of the tattoo.

 

“I should have done this sooner,” Darren says. “But I did not…I did not want you to know about me lest you…” He trails off. “Well, it does not matter now. With your permission?”

 

Chris nods without truly knowing what Darren is asking him for. He gasps in surprise when Darren pushes his tunic up and makes quick work of his bandages.

 

“What are you--?”

 

Darren covers the wound with his whole hand; Chris flinches instinctively, remembering the shock of pain, but settles under the soothing heat of the touch.

 

“This will not hurt,” Darren says, offering him a quick smile before closing his eyes.

 

A soft song fills the air and it takes Chris a moment to realize it is coming from Darren. Chris recognizes the sound, almost; his first memories of Darren are hazy, but he remembers a resonant song that came from Darren as he tended to Chris’ bleeding side before he passed out. Heat flares deep beneath Chris’ ribs, spreading along his waist and into his belly where his muscles contract on a spasm.

 

When Darren pulls his hand away, the stitches are gone and so is the wound. His flesh is pale and smooth. All that remains is a thin silver scar.

 

“Oh.” Chris looks upon it in wonder.

 

“I could take the scar too, if you wanted.” Darren’s fingers brush against the healed skin and Chris shivers at the lingering spark of heat.

 

Chris shakes his head, dazed. His whole body feels warm, thrumming with energy, fairly pulsing with life. “No, leave it. As a memory.”

 

“It cannot be a good memory,” Darren responds.

 

“Perhaps, but it is one I want to keep regardless.”

 

Darren looks up. He is very close; Chris can hear his quick breaths. His hair is still brushed back, exposing the shape of his ears, and the open laces of his shirt reveal a blush spreading across his chest, unable to be hidden by his tattoo.

 

Chris _wants_.

 

There was a boy in his village, two summers ago, who would fool around with him in the stables at night as some boys do. It was a joy, Chris recalls, fumbling and embarrassing at times, but one of the delights of his day when they managed to sneak away from their families for an hour in the dark of the night. The aching want felt desperate and wild, sated briefly at best. But the other boy met a girl, a girl with freckles and long red hair. Chris did not see much of the boy after that. It pained him, for a while, to think of their messy kisses and inexperienced hands, but those memories faded into dust and he did not dwell.

 

And now Chris wants again, fiercely. The world seems full of new possibilities he’d never before dreamed of, and this high-hearted man before him is one of them.

 

Darren has not moved away; his gaze seems fixed on Chris’ mouth. Chris’ heart beats so quickly, so loudly he’s sure anyone in the forest can hear it. Chris does not think he has the bravery of some men, but he has courage enough for this.

 

The kiss is lightning fast and contains an eternity. Chris presses his lips to Darren’s too quickly for Darren to respond, but long enough for Chris to feel a thrill that shivers down to his toes.

  
Darren’s next breath is sharp and ragged. He pulls back from the kiss instead of pressing closer for another taste as Chris desires. The warmth in Chris’ blood starts to seep away even as his core aches.

 

“We mustn’t,” Darren whispers, finally bending forward, but only to press his forehead against Chris’.

 

“Why?”

 

“It is foolish.”

 

Chris’ heart contracts painfully with rejection. “Why is it foolish?”

 

“It is foolish in the way that it is foolish to plant an oak tree next to your front door.”

 

Chris licks his lips that have gone dry and whispers, “I don’t understand.”

 

Darren’s hand strokes up Chris’ arm as though he can’t help himself. “A tree will grow and a house cannot move.”

 

“I am not a house and you are not a tree.”

 

“But you are who you are, and I am who I am. The inevitable _will_.”

 

“Why must you speak in riddles?”

 

Darren laughs, but it is a dry and ragged sound. “I have something I must – there is an obligation I must fulfill. To myself. And until that is paid…”

 

Chris pulls himself away, turning so he does not have to face Darren. He tugs his new clothes together to give his hands something to do. He has never felt quite such confusion and shame as he does in this moment. He had thought, he had _considered_ that Darren’s gaze, his kindness, and his care meant something more.

 

“We should,” Chris clears his throat. “We should carry on. My family must be – well I’m sure they’re wondering…” Chris stands up, squares his shoulders, takes a breath, and finally looks down at Darren.

 

The other man seems smaller than ever, shoulders hunched in and his expression a pale grimace. Chris does not understand the reason for Darren’s rejection of his advances, or why he looks so aggrieved to have done so. If he did not want it, it should not matter. His countenance says it matters.

 

“I understand if you do not wish to help me any farther. I am sure I can find my way from here.” It is a bitter lie and surely Darren knows it. Chris has no idea where they are in relation to his village. The ways through the Eastern Forest appear on no map he has learned.

 

Darren tilts his head back; his eyes have lost much of their golden hues, but remain beautiful. “I told you I would see you through the forest, and I shall.”

 

***

 

The next hours are the most awkward Chris can remember in all his years. And once his sister walked in on him _tending to himself_ in the barn. Chris walks half a step behind Darren instead of at his shoulder as they had done the last days. He drinks from Darren’s ever-full waterskin when he is thirsty, but asks for nothing else. And all the while an awful, gnawing pit grows in his stomach, heavy as lead and cold as ice. Chris wishes he could go back to that morning, to that lovely moment when they were so close, and take back the kiss. To instead let the moment unfold along a different path. Then perhaps Darren would not be in such a bleak mood with him. Perhaps they would still have things to say to one another.

 

Darren, for his part, is silent. His boots are soundless against the ground, his breath is still, and his cloak makes nary a whisper around his body. It is as though he is folding into himself, trying to keep a distance from Chris however possible.

 

The arrow that cuts through the air is almost silent as it wooshes past Chris’ head before embedding itself in the trunk of a tree with a sharp crack and splinter of bark. Chris barely has time to gasp before Darren steps in front of him, shielding him with his body.

 

“Hail, Master of the Forest,” comes a voice dripping in mockery.

 

Darren’s entire body goes rigid and the air seems to crackle around him. “Show yourselves.” His voice is deep, commanding. For the first time since he met Darren, Chris feels true fear.

 

Three figures emerge from the dark places between the trees. They are clothed in similar garb to Darren and their footsteps are just as silent. Each of them has a cowl pulled up over their heads, but Chris can see that two of them are female. Each of them carries a bow and a gleaming steel sword.

 

“Is that any way to greet your family?” One of the women asks in a lilting voice, taking a step forward.

 

Darren counters, “You are not my family, Orseis.”

 

The newcomers move with precision, effectively surrounding Chris and Darren in seconds. Darren shifts, trying to keep Chris guarded from all sides, but cannot. Chris curls his fingers around the fabric of Darren’s cloak and holds on.

 

The man pushes his cowl back. His dark hair is cropped close, exposing his pointed ears for all to see. “You _are_ our family,” he growls. “That you cannot choose or deny.”

 

“But deny he has,” the second woman chimes in. She has green eyes and her hair too is short enough to display the inhuman shape of her ears. They are, Chris realizes, what Darren is – Wildlings. “And chosen a different side.” Disdain and anger rings in the woman’s voice.

 

“Because you have become a disgrace to our kind, Rhonwen,” Darren fires back.

 

The man takes a step forward, pointing the wicked end of his sword at Darren. “ _You_ are the disgrace here.”

 

“You turned your back on us,” Orseis sneers, coming closer.

 

“You fight against us.” Rhonwen unsheathes her sword.

 

“You protect this…boy.”

 

“ _Traitor_.”

 

Chris feels it when a shudder racks Darren’s body. Fear sits bitter on his tongue and his heart beats so fast it hurts.

 

“I may be a traitor, Gowyr,” Darren responds in a deceptively calm voice. “But at least I am not a murderer, or a King-slayer.”

 

Shock steals Chris’ next breath. It cannot be. They cannot be the ones responsible for the sacking of the city and the death of the King. But when Chris looks more closely at them, there is ash on their clothing, scorch marks marring the fine material, and rusty stains the color of dried blood.

 

The three Wildlings surrounding them merely smile with sharp cruelty and do not deny the accusation.

 

“You always thought yourself better than us,” Orseis says as she inches closer. Darren shuffles them a step back, but there is nowhere to go, only closer to Rhonwen’s bared sword.

 

“I did not.”

 

“You did,” Orseis sneers. “You think yourself higher than us. Righteous. You still belong to us.”

 

“We’ve been following you for _days_ ,” Gowyr comments with affected boredom. “After we saw you fleeing the city like the coward we always knew you were.”

 

Chris can feel hot tears in his eyes. It was the Wildlings who destroyed the city, and Darren was there, with them. His people. Killers of men, women, and children. And now they have come for them.

 

“I did not flee--”

 

“You did,” Rhonwen interrupts with growing agitation. “Tail between your legs after you killed your own kind.”

 

Darren shivers again. “I did what this world needed.”

 

“Your brothers, your sisters…”

 

“There was no need for you to attack the kingdom. There are other ways – diplomacy can work if you--”

 

Orseis nocks another arrow into her bow. “The world of men dared to come too close. To push too far. To take too much. To burn our trees, our land. Your _land_. Your blood is our blood, not theirs. Not _his_. We are your family. You should have fought with us. Died with us if need be.”

 

“It matters not. Blood is blood and nothing more.” Darren stands straighter, squaring his shoulders. “You attacked the city with no warning; they had no chance to defend themselves. You slaughtered the helpless. The world demanded balance.”

 

“What balance could you effect? Just you. You took this boy and fled the city. Abandoned your ridiculous fight. Why?” Rhonwen asks it as though she could never understand and would not even try to.

 

“I could not save them all,” Darren responds, his voice cracking. “But I could save one. And one can be enough, if it matters.”

 

Chris rests his forehead against Darren’s shoulder for a brief moment, to offer what comfort and strength he can. He does not have time to think, to figure out what has happened. His memories of the city remain elusive, but he’s coming to understand that what transpired was far more complicated that he could have imagined.

 

“You are a fool,” Gowyr spits. “You always were a fool. Spineless. Soft. Carried by the whims of your heart.”

 

Darren takes the insults with a twitch of his mouth. “Whatever I am, at least I have not taken an innocent life. I made my choice. My scales are balanced. The same cannot be said for any of you.”

 

Orseis raises her bow and takes aim. “Goodbye, Master of the Forest.”

 

Darren suddenly turns towards Chris. His eyes are golden in the light, wild and scared. When he speaks next his voice is thin and urgent: “Go.”

 

Chris blinks, frozen in the moment. “What?”

 

Darren shoves him, hard. “Go. _Run_!”

 

Chris runs, breaking past Rhonwen and bursting into the trees. Behind him he hears shouts of confusion, anger – the metallic clanging of swords and the frantic scuffling of feet. An arrow whizzes past him, so close he can feel air whisper against his cheek before it disappears harmlessly into the darkening forest. Green vines emerge from the soil and grasp for his ankles; he trips, stumbles, but does not fall. He darts to the left, the right, quick steps pulling him farther and farther away.

 

Chris runs. Branches of the trees whip past him, catching at his clothes and scratching at his face, his hands. Fear pushes him harder, faster. He’s always been the fastest one in his family. He wants to stop, wants to go back and help Darren, the man who saved his life. But he has no weapons and no skill. He is no fighter, barely a farmer – more a scholar than anything. He was nearly killed in the city and surely would be killed on the spot if he went back. He does not know if there is anything to go back to.

 

He runs until he can run no further, falling to his hands and knees as his fatigued legs give way. His breath comes in ragged, copper-tainted gasps, lungs straining against his ribs. The ground is cold and damp, seeping through his pants already.

 

Looking up, Chris has no idea where he is. The path is gone. What remains is deep, old forest. Thick trees growing tall, some straight into the sky, others gnarled and twisted. It is quiet and smells of earth and decay, moist air dragging past his lips with every struggling breath.

 

The world seems to close in around him – the pain, the fear, and the uncertainty. The sheer enormity of the last few days, all the things he has desperately tried to keep at bay in order to just keep going, surges up within him.

  
Chris hangs his head and lets the tears come.


	3. Spent In Love

The city burns around him. They had come quickly, hooded figures in brown and green, sweeping through the streets with cold precision, setting buildings alight and slaughtering everyone in their way.

 

Chris is dazed, disoriented. He’d been at the apothecary, waiting his turn to see if the chemist had the herbs and medicine that would ease his sister’s cough when the screams from outside had caught his attention. Then he’d smelled the smoke.

 

Outside is chaos; people running, screaming, falling to the ground with an arrow or three embedded in their body. The horses in the stables scream and snort in panic. The city is usually alive with activity, but in that moment is nothing but madness. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. Across the cobblestone street a cloaked figure runs a guard through with a long sword before stabbing another with a smaller dagger. The scene repeats over and over again as body after body falls.

 

Chris tries to make his way to the stables where his borrowed horse waits, knowing he’ll never make it out on foot. But he’s pushing against the tide of terrified citizenry fleeing the city walls. A man twice his size barrels straight into him, knocking him back against a crumbling stone wall and the breath from his lungs. Smoke is filling the city; Chris’ eyes sting, and water and rubbing them does not help.

 

He keeps moving, knowing he must to survive. He carries no weapon, only has the speed of his legs to save him. But there are so many frantic people pushing in on all sides. The clash of steel against steel, steel against stone frays his nerves. Every scream of a dying person chills his blood, but he cannot stop for anyone. The stable is close, he thinks, just around the bend. If only he can get there in time.

 

The sword arcs through the air with no warning, soundless and sharp; slices through his coat, his tunic, and his flesh. Chris staggers, losing his footing and slumping against a low wall. He does not know from whom the blow came. Blood seeps through his tunic already, and from between his fingers when he presses his hand to the wound. The pain is sharp, throbbing; heat lancing through him down to his spine. He does not know how deep the wound goes.

 

Chris thinks of his sister and the medicine he did not get for her, and his parents who will not know something is wrong for weeks. He did not expect to die when he came to the city. But die he will, as all men do eventually. For some, time moves like sap from a tree; for others it is a raging river. Chris knows how it moves for him now. He cannot get in the way of such a thing. His eyes close.

 

***

 

Chris wakes up without realizing he’d fallen asleep, having collapsed under the weight of his fear, his panic, and his uncertainty. He wakes up cold, but not alone. A familiar cloak draped over him carries the scent of the forest and the richness of Darren’s skin. Chris blinks in confusion, trying to rouse himself fully as he looks around. He is not alone.

 

Darren sits on the ground close by, back against a tall tree with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs. Relief floods through Chris before any other thought. Darren is _alive_ and he is _there_. His brethren did not cut him down; Chris has not been left alone in the depths of a forest in a world he no longer understands. Chris puts a hand to his chest to feel his own beating heart.

 

Darren’s eyes are closed and his mouth is relaxed; Chris would think him asleep if it were not for the uncomfortable position. Darren has a cut on his cheek and his skin is pale, and when Chris sits up he can see numerous tears in Darren’s clothing, burn marks and stains in the once pristine and lovely fabric.

 

Chris gazes with soft wonder at this high-hearted man and lets himself breathe.

 

Chris calls out softly, “Darren?” He does not want to startle him.

 

Darren’s eyes slowly open. “Hello.”

 

The sound of his voice is a bell Chris thought he’d never hear rung again. He scrambles to his knees, tugging the cloak around his shoulders as he shuffles to Darren’s side.

 

“Are you well? Are you hurt? What happened?”

 

  
Chris puts his hand on Darren’s arm, to ground himself, but it’s not enough. The cloth is a barrier he cannot abide. He pushes up the sleeve of Darren’s tunic to get at his skin and then stares in surprise.

 

The beautiful, twisting tattoo has lost much of its color, faded now to rust brown, like old blood.

 

“Darren, what--?”

 

Darren shakes his head and the muscles in his arm flex under Chris’ fingers. “It is all right,” he says. “I am fine. I will be fine.”

 

“How are you alive?” Chris does not mean to take Darren’s hand, but their fingers tangle together all the same. The touch is soothing and thrilling.

 

“They fought with anger,” Darren says. “I yearn to live. Sometimes the one outweighs the other.”

 

The realization is uncomfortable in Chris’ belly. “You killed them.”

 

Darren’s mouth twitches. “They would not have allowed you to leave this forest.” He does not say more.

 

Chris swallows. He cannot help but think of the kiss that Darren pulled away from. Because, despite that, he risked his life to save Chris. Again. He chose Chris over his own people. Again. It means something, Chris knows. But he cannot hope for something that perhaps Darren does not want in return.

 

“Are you hurt?” Chris asks instead of kissing Darren again. He touches his thumb to the edge of the long cut on Darren’s cheek. It looks like it was a deeper wound, but has healed considerably. Chris worries how badly Darren was injured before he managed to heal himself this much.

 

“It is nothing that will not mend.”

 

Chris frowns. He wants to delve beneath Darren’s clothes to see where else he is hurt. Even though he cannot heal with a touch and a song, he still knows how to clean and dress a wound. He aches to do something for Darren to begin to repay what he has been given. He hurts to see Darren injured.

 

“We must keep moving,” Darren says, but makes no move to get up. His skin is cool to the touch and his eyes dull.

 

“No,” Chris counters, tightening his fingers around Darren’s. “You need to rest. You look unwell. I won’t have you getting worse.”

 

“I…overextended myself,” Darren admits, brushing his fingers across the rust of his tattoo.

 

“What can I do? I cannot heal you as you did for me.”

 

Darren looks up; his eyes are forest green in the warm light. “You can stay with me while I sit a moment, if you do not mind it much.”

 

Chris’ heart contracts painfully. “I would stay with you even if you told me to leave.”

 

Darren cups his cheek, thumb brushing across his cheekbone and Chris cannot help but lean into it. “Chris.”

 

The kiss is slower when it comes. Chris blushes at the taste of Darren’s tongue and the helpless moan that follows, but Darren smiles and kisses him deeper.

 

Darren’s hair is soft and tangled and he shivers when Chris trails his curious fingers over the shape of his ears, so unlike his own. His teeth catch on Chris’ bottom lip in a way Chris can only think of as playful. Chris’ whole being _wants_.

 

Darren’s legs unfold, allowing Chris to push closer. He wants to drape himself across Darren’s body, but resists. He is still unsure of so many things, but he thinks he could stay like this forever, learning the shape of Darren’s mouth and the small sounds that escape his lips. Darren’s hands are eager, dragging underneath the cloak and belying his previous reticence. He grips at Chris’ lower back before cupping his face in both hands, restless as though he cannot decide where to touch. His long fingers frame Chris’ ears with a gentleness that makes Chris’ whole body warm.

 

“This is not resting,” Chris whispers raggedly when he must pull away to breathe.

 

Darren laughs, “No.”

 

“You said that before – _no_.”

 

Darren swallows heavily and the air between them shifts. “We should not be doing this.”

 

“Why not? Because I’m human?”

 

“It is far more complicated than that.” Darren’s thumb strokes the soft curve of Chris’ ear and Chris must look away from the depth of tenderness in Darren’s eyes.

 

“Why must everything be so damn complicated with you?” Even as Chris says the words, he knows it is a stupid question. He’s learned so much of the world in the last few days he knows he cannot go back to the boy he once was. Sighing, Chris leans his forehead against Darren’s temple. “I did not mean it like that.”

 

Darren’s hands are warm on his back, still, as though he can’t let go. “You make some choices seem simple, even when they are not,” he admits, voice low, private. A costly admission. “Getting you out of the city. Getting you through this forest. Taking the lives of my--” Darren sighs. “A kiss is simple except when it is not. I would not – I would not have you believe in something I cannot yet deliver upon. Even if it destined to be so.”

 

Chris’ stomach tightens. Rejection is not new and never easy, but then he says, “Yet?”

 

Darren takes Chris’ chin in gentle fingers and guides his gaze back up; his eyes burn gold once more. “ _Yet_. There are things I started I must finish before I allow myself the privilege of you.”

 

Chris kisses him again, because he does not know what else to say.

 

***

 

The subtle edge of the forest comes slowly, in steps; the trees begin to grow sparse as the grass thickens, encroaching along the path. Between the branches the world brightens, hinting at the blue skies beyond. Chris’ heart grows heavy at the sight of it when days ago it would have filled him with joy. The open fields of the North signal the end of their journey.

 

There is no exact end to the woods, no boundary, no border to signify here and there. All Chris knows is that one moment he is in the Eastern Forest and then a moment later he is outside of it. A strange shiver runs down his spine despite the warm sun above their heads. Chris still wears Darren’s cloak and he pulls it around him as he takes a deep breath.

 

They come to a stop a few steps out of the woods. The dirt pathway continues on, meeting up with a wider road for wagons and horse. Chris feels exposed standing out in the wide open like this, already become so used to the closeness of the trees. Next to him, Darren is very still. A gentle breeze ruffles his curls and his mouth is a thin line. Chris wants to ask him what he is thinking, what thoughts straighten his mouth, but he cannot.

 

“We seem to have a companion,” says Darren and Chris turns.

 

If Chris thought he would never again be surprised by the world, he was wrong.

 

Waiting nearby, just beyond the forest’s edge, is the light bay horse with her one white sock, complete with a saddle and a satchel.

 

“My gods,” Chris breathes in wonder. “It cannot be.”

 

“And yet it is.”

 

“Did that old man just…did he just leave her here?”

 

Darren shrugs, unruffled by the horse’s appearance. “Granger has many secrets and more power than he would ever let on. This horse has probably only been waiting here for you but a few minutes.”

 

Days ago Chris would have scoffed at the mere idea, but now he does not. Instead he asks: “Just for me?”

 

“There is but one saddle.”

 

The pang in Chris’ belly is worse than hunger. “What happens now?”

 

Darren takes a slow breath that rises in his chest. “Now, now you go home. Assure your family of your health and safety. Your journey has ended. All you must do is go home again.”

 

Chris’ heart sinks even though Darren’s words come as no surprise. If Chris did not know him at all, he would think Darren dismissive, but Chris knows him better than that now. He can see how stiffly Darren is holding himself, how tense his shoulders. He can see how green his eyes are – bereft of the golden hue they sometimes carry.

 

“But…where will _you_ go?” Chris asks.

 

“There is much I must do.”

 

“Will you not come with me?”

 

Darren swallows heavily and the very air around him feels uneasy, unhappy. “I cannot.”

 

“But why not?” There is petulance in Chris’ voice and he does not care. His very soul is demanding to find a way to make Darren come with him, come home with him. Stay by his side from this day forward. But it seems he cannot have that.

 

Finally Darren turns towards Chris, looks him full in the face.  His eyes are bright and searching. “Because. My journey is not over. I have started something with my people that I cannot leave undone. Some wars must be ended with more that fire and steel. Sadly, dear heart, it is not yet my time.” Darren reaches out and draws his thumb along Chris’ cheek, his chin. “ _Our_ time.”

 

Chris’ heart aches more than the wound in his side ever did. “It is not fair.”

 

“Fairness belongs to very few in this world, and strange hearts such as ours have already been given fair gifts.”

 

For once Chris thinks he knows just what Darren means.

 

“Will I see you again?” He asks, though he knows he is unwilling to accept any answer in the negative.

 

“I cannot know your destiny.”

 

Chris fights not to roll his eyes. “But what about your own?”

 

Darren smiles, bittersweet and beautiful. “It is my fate to see you again. The stars will it so.”

 

Chris does not know much about the stars, but he does know what his heart wants. “How will you find me? My village is small and I have no map to give you.”

 

“This world is not so vast I would not be able to find you anywhere.”

 

Darren found him once, dying outside of a burning city; Chris rather suspects he will be able to seek him out in a sleepy Northern village.

 

“But in case you worry…” Darren takes Chris’ hand and pulls him closer. Pushing up the sleeve of the coat and the tunic, Darren bares the pale skin of Chris’ forearm. His fingers are warm as they trace the paths of veins from elbow to wrist and Chris shivers.

 

“If you will permit me?” Darren asks lowly, brushing his thumb across the delicate skin just below Chris’ elbow. Chris shivers and aches.

 

“What are you asking for?”

 

Darren’s eyes flash that whiskey hue. “Your trust.”

 

Chris swallows. If he is never to bare his heart again he might as well do it now. “You already have that.” The words feel pulled from his bones.

 

A nameless expression flickers across Darren’s face just as the skin beneath his thumb grows warm and pulses once before subsiding.

 

A small leaf now graces Chris’ arm, etched in the same black and green as Darren’s tattoos. It is beautiful, dangerous and beautiful, and Chris is glad for it.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“I will be able to find you,” Darren repeats in earnest, with new urgency. “Anywhere.”

 

Chris believes him, believes that their time will come again whenever Darren takes care of the things he must. Chris can wait.

 

“Find me,” Chris whispers, the closest thing to a prayer to the gods he will allow, just as Darren reaches for him and pulls him into a kiss.

 

Chris has read poems describing the heartbreaking beauty of a goodbye kiss, but those words do not compare to this moment. There is passion and hope and longing and all the things Chris does not yet have a name for. Darren kisses him like he has known him for a lifetime and more, and like he is yearning to find out what he does not yet know.

 

This does not taste like goodbye, but _wait_.

 

When Darren finally pulls away, Chris is not crying, but it is a near thing. Darren thumbs his lower lip and then touches the new leaf tattooed onto Chris’ arm. His cheeks are warm and his eyes bright; he is luminous and Chris must surely love him.

 

“Well,” Chris sniffs. “Any last words for me? Before I go?”

 

Darren tilts his head ever so. “ _Last_? No. Not in this life or the next.” He leans in and brushes a gentle kiss to Chris’ mouth that nearly breaks Chris’ heart. “Travel well.”

 

Darren helps Chris up into the saddle of the waiting horse, though he doesn’t need the assistance. Still, Chris is grateful for the lingering touches to his hips and thighs; things he might be able to take with him and remember during the nights until he sees Darren again.

 

With the reins in his hands, there are a thousand things Chris wants to say to Darren: some confession, some plea, something more. But every word rings false in his head, rings unworthy. All he can do is bend low in the saddle for one final kiss from Darren before guiding his horse to the road and orienting north. If he lingers another moment he’ll never go.

 

Every clop of the horses’ hooves against the packed earth is a bell toll in Chris’ heart, leading him away from Darren. But he does not look back. He cannot.

 

The forest is behind him now. Home is ahead.

 

***

 

Chris goes back to his life. His parents welcome him home with loving arms and relieved kisses. His sister punches him in the shoulder for getting caught up in such a dangerous situation without her. Their dog turns excited circles around his legs and barks happily until Chris pays her enough attention. Chris tells his family an abridged version of the last week – the city under attack, escaping into the forest, finding his way back to them. He even includes Granger and says the old man is how he reacquired the horse he’d thought lost. But Chris does not tell them everything.

 

He does not tell them he was so gravely wounded; he does not tell them he fell close to death. He does not tell them a Wildling saved his life and took his heart. He finds he cannot tell them about Darren. Perhaps because he does not have the right words himself.

 

The first night Chris cannot sleep, no matter how weary his bones are. And weary they are. Lying in his bed once more, no longer on the hard-packed ground, his bones suddenly ache with relief. But he still cannot sleep. The thatched roof is too close, too dark; the stars are missing over his head. The walls are confining and there is no rustling of the wind through the leaves.

 

And he is alone. His mother and father sleep a door away, and his sister snores from the other side of the room, but Chris is alone. He wraps himself up in Darren’s cloak, brings the cloth to his face, and inhales the lingering scent of him. When he still cannot sleep, Chris presses his thumb to the little tattoo, seeking what little connection he can find, and waits for sunrise.

 

The next night he sleeps straight through until midday, when his sister finally tugs him from his bed and forces him to wash and dress. His mother tells him to rest, his father tells him not to worry about the chores, but Chris would rather keep his body moving, his hands busy, his mind occupied. That night when he bathes in an old wooden tub, he touches the thin silver line of his scar and misses the cool water of a river and the warm touch of Darren’s hands.

 

It was but a few days but he feels irrevocably changed, altered down to his blood. He cannot pretend like he understands the world completely, but neither can he act like he does not know more than he did a fortnight ago. He has seen men die and kingdoms fall; he has seen true magic and fallen in love with a Wildling. He cannot be the boy he was before. He cannot go back and so he keeps going.

 

Not even a week returned home and his feet miss the uneven tilt of the path, his bones are restless despite his chores, and his ears prick for the silence of the forest. But mostly he longs for Darren. Chris cannot know when he’ll see him again. He tries not to think about that other word: if. If he will see Darren again. His heart aches, feels caged, and beats for something that is not there.

 

His parents speak a little about the fate of the kingdom; news travels slowly in the North. Chris finds he does not particularly care if the Wildlings claim the West or if men retake the throne after the uprising. As long as his family is safe, hale, and prospering as best they can with what they have, he is satisfied. As satisfied as he can be when he feels as though he is missing a new part of him.

 

A month after his return, Chris is gathering fresh eggs from the chicken coops when the tattoo on his arm throbs sharply. He does not drop the eggs, but it’s a near thing. The ink of the little leaf is warm when he touches it, warmer than his skin. Warm like Darren’s tattoos always are.

 

Panic floods through him that something has happened to Darren to make the tattoo react so. Chris turns from the chicken coops, unsure of where he might go, what he might do, but feeling the deep need to go somewhere.

 

As he comes around to the front of the house, Chris sees a cloaked figure crouched down, petting his dog. His heart stops and thuds heavily back into rhythm; he would know those dark curls anywhere.

 

“Darren,” Chris whispers, his throat too tight for anything more.

 

Darren rises. He wears the same green and brown clothing from when Chris first met him, embroidered with that fine, shimmering gold thread, and a new cloak just like the one Chris has been sleeping under. Darren is not quite smiling, but his face is open, relaxed – almost serene. The weight he had been carrying through the woods is gone and he is transcendent under the warm sunlight. Chris loves him wholly.

 

“I had hoped to make a grander entrance,” Darren says, indicating the dog still sniffing at his feet.

 

Chris is moving again, striding towards Darren and throwing his arms around Darren’s shoulders with abandon. Darren catches him smoothly and hugs him as close as they can be. It’s as though Chris’ whole body sighs in relief, so much tension eases from him on an exhale. Darren smells of the woods they left behind and the dust of the road, and the ache in Chris’ heart finally subsides.

 

“You’re here,” Chris breathes.

 

“I am. I told you I would find you.” Darren tightens his arms around Chris, buries his face in Chris’ neck.

 

Chris is just shy of overwhelmed. He can hardly believe Darren is there – alive and safe and real. Everything is alight with Chris, relieves and joyous.

 

“My tattoo,” Chris tells him. “It grew warm.”

 

Darren simply answers, “Yes.”

 

“Is that--?”

 

Darren’s lips brush against Chris’ neck, his jaw, his cheek. “I told you to trust me.”

 

Chris does not want to ask, fearful of the answer, but must: “Will you stay?”

 

“My path has brought me here to you at journey’s end,” Darren says and his voice contains the heavens and earth. “I told you the stars had fated it. This was always meant to be.”

 

“I care not about the stars or the gods or anything in between. I care about you.”

 

Darren takes Chris’ face in his hands and draws him into a deep kiss. Chris shudders at the near forgotten taste of his lips and the heated brush of his tongue. He gets his hands in Darren’s soft hair, anchoring himself with touch, and traces the pointed tips of Darren’s ears, careful not to expose them to anyone who might suddenly appear.

 

Chris will have to explain Darren to his parents, his sister. He’ll have to tell them about the Wildlings, about true magic. He’ll have to tell them everything that happened. But later. Now Chris revels in Darren’s closeness, his roving hands, the woodsmoke scent of him. He presses his body close and hates the bulk of clothing between them.

 

Chris _wants_. He wants Darren under the stars and a canopy of trees. He wants Darren in the cool fresh air with a gentle stream nearby to wash in after. He wants Darren in his little room, in the mean bed he calls his own that should smell of them both.

 

He has Darren in his arms, in his home. Wherever Darren’s path took him after the Eastern Forest finally brought him back to Chris with a promise to stay. That is enough for him. What battles might yet rage will be waged by others for a time. This is what matters now.

 

Chris kisses Darren ardently and touches his ears. His heart fills when he feels Darren smile against his lips. This is what matters, the convergences of their paths once more. Chris has happiness and he has love and he has Darren to stay by his side wherever the rest of their shared journey takes them.


End file.
